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THE HARLEQUINADE 



BY GRANVILLE BARKER 

THE MADRAS HOUSE 

ANATOL 

THE MARRYING OF ANN LEETE 

THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 

WASTE 

SOULS ON FIFTH 

THREE SHORT PLAYS : rococo : vote 

BY BALLOT : FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
In Collaboration ivith Laurence Housman 

PRUNELLA 




"And what should Columbine be like? Well, she is just like what 

you'd most like her to be. She has a rose in her hand." 
Frontispiece. See pay e 26. 



n^HE HARLEQUINADE 
* AN EXCURSION BY 

DION CLAYTON CALTHROP 
AND GRANVILLE BARKER 




BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 

1918 



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Copyright, iqi8, 
By Harley Granville Barker 



All rights reserved 



"The Harlequinade" is fully protected and must 
not be performed (neither the whole nor any parts 
of it) without written permission. Professionals 
should apply for this to the authors in the care of 
the Publishers; amateurs, to The Paget Dramatic 
Agency, 25 West 45th Street, New York City. 



Published, March, 19 18 



MAR -8 lata 

©CU481908 






JUST A WORD IN YOUR EAR 




JOT to put too fine a point to it, this 
isn't a play at all and it isn't a novel, 
or a treatise, or an essay, or any- 
thing like that; it is an excursion, 
and you who trouble to read it are the trippers. 
Now in any excursion you get into all sorts 
of odd company, and fall into talk with persons 
out of your ordinary rule, and you borrow a 
match and get lent a magazine, and, as likely as 
not, you may hear the whole tragedy and 
comedy of a ham and beef carver's life. So 
you will get a view of the world as oddly col- 
oured as Harlequin's clothes, with puffs of 
sentiment dear to the soul of Columbine, and 
Clownish fun with Pantaloonish wisdom and 
chuckles. When you were young, you used, 
I think, to enjoy a butterfly's kiss ; and that, 
you remember, was when your mother brushed 
your cheek with her eye-lashes. And also 
when you were young you held a buttercup 



vi JUST A WORD IN YOUR EAR 

under other children's chins to see if they liked 
butter, and they always did, and the golden 
glow showed and the world was glad. And 
you held a shell to your ear to hear the sound 
of the sea, and when it rained, you pressed 
your nose against the window-pane until it 
looked flat and white to passers-by. It is 
rather in that spirit that Alice and her Uncle 
present this excursion to you. 

I suppose it has taken over a thousand people 
to write this excursion, and we are, so far, the 
last. And not by any means do we pretend 
because of that to be the best of them ; rather, 
because of that, perhaps, we cannot be the 
best. We should have done much better — 
if we could. Oh, this has been written by 
Greeks and Romans and Mediaeval Italians 
and Frenchmen and Englishmen, and it has 
been played thousands and thousands of times 
under every sort of weather and conditions. 
Think of it: when the gardeners of Egypt 
sent their boxes of roses to Italy to make chap- 
lets for the Romans to wear at feasts this play 
was being performed ; when the solemn Doges 
(which Alice once would call "Dogs") of Venice 
held festa days, this play was shown to the 
people. 



JUST A WORD IN YOUR EAR vii 



And here Alice interrupts and says: "Do 
you think people really like to read all that 
sort of thing? Why don't you let me tell the 
story, please? I'm sitting here waiting to." 
Well, so she shall. 



THE HARLEQUINADE 

For some time now she has been sitting there. 
Miss Alice Whistler is an attractive young 
person of about fifteen (very readily still 
she tells her age), dressed in a silver grey 
frock which she wishes were longer. The 
frock has a white collar; she wears grey 
silk stockings and black shoes; and, finally, 
a little black silk apron, one of those French 
aprons. If you must know still more exactly 
how she is dressed, look at Whistler's por- 
trait of Miss Alexander. 

What happened was this. A pleasant old Vic- 
torian art fancier (sort of) saw the child 
one day, and noted that her name was Whistler 
("No relation, 1 ' said her Uncle Edward, 
il so far as we know"), and "That's how to 
dress her," said he. And thereupon he 
forked out what he delicately called "The 



THE HARLEQUINADE 



Wherewithal" ("Which sounded like a sort 
of mackintosh" said Alice afterwards), 
for they couldn't have afforded it themselves. 
" You're still young enough to take presents" 
said Uncle Edward. And indeed Alice 
was very pleased, and saw that the hem was 
left wide enough to let down several times. 
And here she is; the dress is kept for these 
occasions. 

Here she is in a low little chair, sitting with her 
basket of knitting beside her on one side of 
a simply painted grey and black proscenium, 
across which, masking the little stage, blue 
curtains hang in folds. "The blue," said 
Miss Alice when she ordered them, " must 
be the colour of Blue-eyed Mary." The 
silly shopman did not know the flower. 
"Blue sky then," said Alice, "it's the blue 
that all skies seem to be when you're really 
happy under them." "Reckitt's blue is 
what you want," the shopman said, when 
nothing seemed to do. Yes; and a very 
good blue that is — by lamplight. 

On the other side of the proscenium, ensconced 
(and the word was made to express just this) 
— ensconced in a porter's chair is Uncle 
Edward. It is an old porter's chair, for 



THE HARLEQUINADE 



they seem not to make them nowadays. 
This one indeed was given to Uncle Edward 
by a club that had no further use for it, 
having cured the draughts in its front hall 
by putting up a patent door that the fat mem- 
bers stuck in and that tried to cut the thin 
members in half. A cross between a sentry- 
box and a cradle stuck on end it is, and very, 
very suitable to sit upright in and pretend 
you're not asleep. Years of that sitting in 
by porters, and of leaning against by under - 
porters and messengers who keep you awake 
with their chatter, and of daily dusting and 
rubbing, have made its leather uniform 
softly glow and its brass buttons shine till 
it looks a comfortable piece of furniture 
indeed. Now the side of a stage is draughty 
at the best of times, and Uncle Edward, 
says he, is by no means so young as he was 
{a real live joke to him that outworn phrase 
is), and how he managed before he had it he 
really cannot think ! 
However early you come to the performance you 
always find him there. For minutes and 
minutes you may only be aware of very shiny 
square-toed boots and black-trousered legs 
and a newspaper that hides the rest of him. 



THE HARLEQUINADE 



On most days it will be "The Times 11 , on 
Wednesday it may be "Punch 11 , and on 
Saturdays "The Spectator. 11 "That is a 
gentleman's reading, 11 he says. When the 
paper is lowered, as he turns a page, you 
behold one of those oldish gentlemen with a 
rather pleasant bad temper who really only 
mean to demand by it that young people 
shall pay them the compliment of "getting 
round 11 them. As the time of the perform- 
ance draws near he is apt, at each lowering 
of the paper, to count you up as you sit 
there waiting, and if there are not enough 
of you he looks very disapproving indeed. 

Alice watches you furtively almost all the time 
as she knits or crochets. For audiences 
make such a difference to her, and she is 
always hoping for a good one. It need not 
be a big one to be good {Uncle Edward likes 
them big). To be a good audience is to 
take your share of the performance by enjoy- 
ing it in a simple jolly way — if you can. 
That eases the actors of half the strain, and 
then they can enjoy it, too. And if you can't 
do this, you'd much better go home. 

When it is quite near the time to begin, you hear 
the orchestra tuning up. This you should 



THE HARLEQUINADE 



a 



never miss. There is nothing like it as a 
tonic to rouse the theatre appetite. At 
the sound of it Alice puts away her knitting, 
and hopes her hair is tidy. 

Then on a single flute a little tune is played, 
and the child's eyes light up. Music excites 
her, sets all the gaiety in her free. If it 
wasn't for the help that music is she'd quite 
despair sometimes of getting through the play. 
That's mine. That's my theme," she says. 
"I've had a piece of music to myself because 
every one in this has a piece of music. But 
mine is — " 

But Uncle Edward has finally put his paper 
down. And now — by means of a violent 
operation on his waistcoat — he produces 
an enormous silver watch, like those that 
railway guards have. And he turns to 
Alice. 

"Time," he says magnificently. 

Alice looks doubtfully at the laggards trailing to 
their places and snapping down the stalls. 
But Uncle Edward is adamant to her if 
tolerant to them. 

"Some of 'em always late," and his blue eye 
roves round. "It's their dinner. But go 
and begin your bit like a good girl." 



6 THE HARLEQUINADE 

So then Alice comes to the middle of the stage; 
swallows a little from nervousness, and 
begins . . . 

alice. If you please, this is going to be a 
Harlequinade ... a real one. And we begin 
it at the beginning, which is as many thousand 
years ago as you like to believe. It's about 
how . . . how . . . 

uncle edward. Psyche. 

alice. When I was young I would call her 
Fishy. It is all about how Psyche, who is a 
perfect darling . . . 

uncle edward. You are not to put bits in. 

alice. Well, she is a perfect darling. But 
you don't see her in the first scene. Now 
Psyche, who is the Soul, comes down . . . when- 
ever a baby's born, of course, a little scrap of 
Psyche is sent down ! . . . But this is how 
the story goes . . . That she comes down 
from Mount Olympus where the gods live to 
adventure on the earth. And in the Harle- 
quinade she's Columbine, but that only means 
a dove, and a dove is the symbol of the soul. 
And anybody who is fond of flowers knows 
that, because if you look at Columbine flowers 
you can see that they are made of doves with 



THE HARLEQUINADE 



their wings out. And so she ought always to 
be dressed in blue. 

uncle edward. What's that ? 

Alice. Well, I like blue. She's a restless 
adventurous person, and she's always running 
away from the other gods. For you see the 
Soul has need of human love, and, of course, 
gods that are nothing but gods can't appreciate 
that. Now when she gets to earth her wings 
drop off. And when she tries to get back to 
the gods, she can't until she finds another love 
as great as hers. For two souls that love 
become more than human ; and when their 
earthly course is run (as Doctor Watts says), 
it gives them wings again, and back they can 

fly- 

uncle edward. Pretty. 

Alice. But ... to resume. Mercury, who 
used to spend week-ends in Athens and Corinth 
and those places, was sent to try and find her. 
Mercury has to get old Charon, who is the 
ferryman for rowing souls over the Styx . . . 
which is a river all the dead have to cross . . . 
and my aunt, who's dead and full of fun . . . 
oh, I'm sure she still is full of fun . . . always 
said it was the most interesting place in spirit- 
ual geography. 



8 THE HARLEQUINADE 

UNCLE edward. Steady ! Steady ! 

Alice. You told me she said so. 

uncle edward. In private. Mercury gets 
Charon . . .? 

alice. To ferry him across. And on the 
earth side they meet . . . 

UNCLE EDWARD. Not SO fast. 

alice. They meet a Greek philosopher 
whose name is . . . 

uncle edward. Hipponax. 

alice. Aren't some of these names dread- 
fully difficult to remember. Hipponax has 
just died, and he is waiting to be ferried 
over. And it's rather awkward for him, as, 
when he was alive, he wrote a book to prove 
there weren't any gods and there wasn't any 
after life. And then comes Momus, who's a 
sort of half-god, not important enough to be 
rowed over, but he has swum the river as he 
wants to join the party. Hipponax stays to 
look after Charon's boat. And that's how it 
all begins. When the three of them get to 
earth Mercury's called Harlequin, and Momus, 
Clown; and . . . But I tell you all that 
later. 

uncle edward. You missed out again about 
how Harlequin got his mask. 



THE HARLEQUINADE 9 

alice. Sorry! So I did. The Greek philos- 
opher always wore a mask, so that people 
shouldn't see whether he was talking sense 
or not. For you can tell that by looking at 
people. And he wore a cloak all patches to 
pretend he was poor, because you aren't a 
philosopher at all unless you're poor . . . 
there's no need. But Columbine's the nicest. 
You'll see. 

uncle edward. You're not to take sides. 

alice. I wasn't. They will see. 

uncle edward. Ask George if they are 
ready. 

alice. They are always quite ready when I 
begin. 

UNCLE EDWARD. All right. 

[So he takes up the large wooden mallet that 
lies beside his chair and says solemnly to 
the audience, 

As in Paris. 

[Then he bangs the stage with it three times. 
He loves this classic touch. Then he 
calls out to George {we must suppose), 
whom we guess to be the presiding genius 
at the "back "/'Music!" 



10 THE HARLEQUINADE 

The Music begins. It is a small orchestra 
to be sure. But if you have two double- 
basses and enough fiddles on top you can 
manage to make the flowing of a river 
sound quite well. The music makes you 
think of the Styx {which is a deep bass, 
never ending, four in a bar, sort of 
river) before ever Uncle Edward and 
Alice draw you the curtains and show 
you the picture. Rather an awesome pic- 
ture it is with the cold blue river and the 
great black cliffs and the blacker cypresses 
that grow along its banks. There are signs 
of a trodden slope and a ferry, and there's 
a rough old wooden shelter where pas- 
sengers can wait; a bell hung on the 
top with which they call the ferryman. 
And under this now sits Hipponax, the 
Greek philosopher ; and he is ringing the 
bell very violently and unphilosophically 
indeed. 

Alice goes back to her seat. She can see 
the scenes from there by twisting her head 
far round, and she often does. For 
whether things on the stage go right or 
wrong, they never go the same way twice, 
so it is always interesting. 



THE HARLEQUINADE 11 

alice. This is the banks of the Styx. That 
is ... Oh, I said that before. 

hipponax. Ferry ! Hie ! Ferry ! 

[He rings and rings, but only the black cliffs 
echo back the hollow sound of the bell. 

hipponax. So I was right ! There is no 
ferryman ; there are no gods. But yet, though 
I died of brain fever yesterday afternoon, here 
still, in some sense, am I. Which confirms the 
fact that I am an extraordinary man. In the 
last world I proved that there were no gods 
because, said I ... it was very simple ... I 
have never seen them. And in this world . . . 
if by any means I can get across that river . . . 
I'll prove in a second volume that there are 
none here either. 

[And now comes Mercury, who is as beautiful 
and as calm as the statue of him that 
rests — as if but for a moment — on its 
black plinth in the Naples Museum. If 
that statue could move like a faun, that 
is what Mercury should be; so it isn't 
easy to find an actor to play him. And 
his voice must be clear and sweet. Not 
loud. But his words must be like the 
telling of the hours — as befits a god. 



n THE HARLEQUINADE 

He stands there in his glory. But Hip- 
ponax still tugs at the bell and grumbles, 
for he sees nothing but empty air. 

hipponax. [With a final snap and pull.] 
Ferry ! ! Not a soul about. 

alice. He can't see Mercury because he 
doesn't believe in him. 

[Then comes Charon from the ferry with his 
long pole. He is but a half -god and so can 
grow old, older and ever old, though he 
may never die. He looks at Hipponax 
with great contempt. 

CHARON. Another of these philosophers! 

hipponax. I have rung this bell I don't 
know how many times. 

charon. I heard you. 

hipponax. You heard me. [Then he swells.] 
Do you know who I am? Hipponax. 

charon. Do you know who I am ? Charon. 

hipponax. Charon ! 

[It is as if trees and rocks had begun to speak 
to him. His breath goes, he fishes wildly 
for his book, his immortal work they 
called it, so naturally he did manage to 
bring one copy out of the world with him. 



THE HARLEQUINADE IS 

There's no such — ! [But Charon is so very 
real.] Oh ! Well, I'll mention it in a foot- 
note. 

Charon. Stop your foolish talk, man, and 
stand up. Don't you see who is with me? 

hipponax. There's no one with you. 

[Then the voice of the god is heard. Music to 
us. And even to Hipponax, now, it is as 
if the air round him were gently shaken. 

charon. Take care. 

mercury. Charon, the two obols. 

[Charon, humbly saluting, takes his fee. 

charon. If you can't see, can't you hear 
him? 

hipponax. I heard nothing. 

charon. Give him your mask and cloak 
to hide the light from his eyes that dazzles 
you. 

hipponax. Give who ? 

charon. It's Mercury, the Messenger. 

[Hipponax, himself, is shaking a little now. 
Charon takes from him his mask and his 
ragged philosopher' s cloak, and, sure 
enough, as they hang where he places them 
they seem to cover a human shape. 



14 THE HARLEQUINADE 

ALICE. And that's the beginning of Harle- 
quin's clothes. 

hipponax. Nonsense. These conjuring tricks. 

There are no gods. I've proved there are no . . . 

[Mercury has lifted the mask and at sight 

of that radiance, as if lightning had struck 

him, Hipponax falls to the ground. 

Charon. Now you've blinded him. 
mercury. No blinder a worm than he was 
before . . . denying the sun. What are you? 
hipponax. [Without lifting his head.] I was 
once ... a sort of philosopher. 

mercury. Really ! Row him across, Charon ; 
loose him among the shades of the poets and 
children, and in pity they may teach him to see. 
charon. Come along. 

[He handles him with about that sort of 

kindness — and no more than enough 

of it — which you spend on a mangy cur. 

But then he stops. 

What's that ? Someone swimming my Styx. 

On the bank . . . shaking himself. Momus, 

my half-brother. 

[And on bounds Momus. He is the comic 
man, it's easy to see. Well, gods and 
godlings must be made to laugh sometimes, 



THE HARLEQUINADE 15 

and since life is simple to them, they laugh 
at the simplest things. Walking is rather 
serious. So Momus never walks; he 
waddles, and they laugh at that. It is 
serious to stand straight. So he is always 
knock-kneed and bandy-legged, and they 
laugh like anything. And, as they never 
grow old, jokes never grow old to them and 
they never ask for new ones. So this is 
always Momus' s welcome cry when he 
comes to make them laugh . . . 

momus. Yes . . . here we are again. 

charon. And in a nice state. 

momus. Almost almighty Mercury, take 
me with you. I know why Psyche went . . . 
she was as bored as I am. I can help you find 
her. For if she's up to mischief, I shall soon 
know where she is. 

[Though he looks very, very funny as he pleads, 
Mercury shakes his head. 

Don't go thinking because you're so clever, 
you can do better without a fool like me. 
Saturday afternoon it is. If, when Jupiter 
starts work on Monday, there's no one to draw 
the corks of the bottled lightning . . . look 
out for trouble. Come along, too, Charon. 



16 THE HARLEQUINADE 

CHARON. I? 

momus. Yes, you're growing ever so dull. 
A week on earth will do you good ... if you're 
not too much of an old 'un. 

charon. I'm not an old 'un. 

momus. You are an old 'un. 

[And when a thing isn't really funny, say 
it twice and it often sounds so. Charon 
is tempted. 

charon. I can't leave the boat. 

hipponax. Oh, take me back to earth again. 
They'll mock at me on the other side of this 
hellish river . . . play tricks on me . . . 

mercury. Charon, give him your oar. He 
shall mind the boat till Monday. A final and 
a wholesome exercise in what he calls his philos- 
ophy, to row all day from a place he has never 
understood to a place he doesn't believe in. 

hipponax. I can't row. 

momus. You don't know what you can do 
till you try. You'll have more muscle by 
Monday. 

charon. Can you get good wine below ? 

mercury. To your boat, philosopher. 

[What is a blind man to question the voice of 
a god ? He turns to the hated river, tapping 



THE HARLEQUINADE 17 

the ground with his pole. Now comes a 
joke, one of the very oldest. 

momus. One moment. 

hipponax. [As he turns back, hopeful of 
respite.] What is it ? 

momus. How far would you have got if I 
hadn't called you back? 

[Mercury hardly smiles. But Charon is 
abandoned to mirth. He slaps his old 
knees with his hands. 

charon. He's a funny fellow. 
hipponax. Dull clown ! 

[And he starts again. But there's another 
joke he must be part of, just as old and just 
as silly. 

momus. No, no ! Turn to the right, and 
to the right. Still to the right. And again to 
the right. That's right. 

[Round and round went Hipponax until 
he found his path again. Silly . . . and 
unkind? Yes, Nature and children with 
their parables of humour sometimes seem 
to be so . . . but only if we lose all touch 
with them. Then the voice of Mercury 
is like music . . , 



18 THE HARLEQUINADE 

mercury. Come ; earthwards both of you. 
I smell the spring and fields and flowers. Is 
that Pan piping ? No, a bird's song. Such little 
things as that does Psyche love and seek. On we 
go. 

[Mercury is gone. You should wonder how, 
though it looks mere walking. Charon 
is walking after, so tame an exit that it 
will never do. 
"Give us a back, old 'un," says Momus, 
and leap-frogs him. Poor old back, it 
gives way. For Momus is a weight in- 
deed. But if you can't laugh at your 
own hurts, what can you laugh at? So 
Charon totters after, chuckling as he rubs 
his bones. 
And Uncle Edward and Alice draw the blue 
curtains. Uncle Edward's eye questions 
the audience. They don't so often applaud 
this scene. For one thing, they're still 
settling down. And then, applause is 
not the only sign they're liking it, nor yet 
the best. But you can tell by the feel of 
them. Edward can. And if it's a 
friendly, happy, a sort of "home ~y" feel, 
why then, the quieter they sit the better. 
But Alice only thinks of how the actors 



THE HARLEQUINADE 19 

do, and she is never too pleased with 
this scene. It's never beautiful enough to 
look at. . Mercury {poor dear!) is never 
really like a god. And so she hurries to 
the next. 




LICE. The next part is going to be 
all in dumb-show, because it's in the 
fifteenth century, and that's how 
they used to play things in the fif- 
teenth century, when they played heaps of Har- 
lequinades . . . and Uncle and I and the actors 
are nothing if not correct. 

uncle edward. True. 

Alice. But first we are going to skip an 
awful lot, all the part about the Early Ages, 
and the Middle Ages and all about how the 
gods gradually became actors ... 

uncle edward. Better tell them. 

Alice. Well, it's rather difficult to under- 
stand. But you know if you stop believing in 
a thing, such as fairies, or that you like choco- 
late, or that your Uncle's fond of you . . . after 
a bit it somehow isn't there any longer. That's 
what nearly happened to the gods. But Mer- 
cury knew that if people won't believe a thing 
when you say it's real, they'll just as good as 

20 



THE HARLEQUINADE 21 

believe it and understand it a great deal better 
when it only seems make-believe. And that's 
Art. And as the easiest art in the world is the 
art of acting ... I hope they didn't hear [She 
wags back her little head to the proscenium.] . . . 
the gods became actors. 

uncle edward. Now you get back to the 
story. It's all they [He wags his big head at the 
audie?ice.] care about. 

ALICE. Yes. Momus helped Mercury find 
Psyche, and they all had a tremendous time and 
hoped it would never be Monday. For every 
time they got to the end of a century they 
wanted to stay and see what would happen in 
the next. Like when you eat nuts it's so very 
difficult to stop at any particular nut, isn't it? 
Now I . . . 

uncle edward. But they don't want to 
hear about you. 

alice. Sorry. 

uncle edward. And don't gabble. This 
ain't the metaphysics, which they can't abear. 
This is facts. They respect facts. 

ALICE. I hate facts. They're so dull. It 
was when they became actors they got their 
new names. Harlequin and Columbine and 
Clown and Pantaloon. And they travelled 



4k. 



22 THE HARLEQUINADE 

from Greece into Italy, where Charon got 
called Pantaloon because he acted an old gentle- 
man of Venice, and Saint Pantaleone is a patron 
of Venice, and there were heaps of people 
called Pantaleone there in the fifteenth. . . . 

[Uncle Edward is snapping his fingers and 
pointing to his trousers.] 

Yes, I know. Even to-day Pantaloon is still 
wearing the very Venetian clothes of the time 
when he first played the part. He's got on 
the first pantaloons ever worn, and his hair is 
tied in a lovelock. Clown and Pantaloon have 
got white faces. By this time funny actors, 
who acted in dumb-show, used to put flour 
on their faces, like Pierrot you know, because 
the theatres were so dark and they wanted to 
show their expressions. Then there's the scene. 
I do hope you'll like the scene. It's supposed 
to be Italy, and I think it's beautiful. Any- 
how it's the kind of scene we have to have so 
as not to take up too much room. And it has 
beehives in it. Columbine keeps two, one for 
bees and one for butterflies. 

[// is part of Alice's regret, for which she 
keeps a nearly secret sigh, that we couldn't 
have real bees and butterflies. She thinks 



THE HARLEQUINADE 23 



it would be so jolly to see the bees and 
butterflies go among the audience and 
settle on the buttonholes and sprays they 
wear and bring back the sense of gardens 
to the people there. 

Uncle, do you know how Clown told me how 
to tell the difference ? 

uncle edward. You minx ! 

alice. Put your hand into the butterfly 
hive, and if they sting you, you know it's the 
bees. 

uncle edward. Did he? Well, go on and 
tell them the rest. 

alice. Yes. Columbine has run away again. 
The story's always got to be that. Either 
Columbine runs away from somebody, or 
somebody runs away with her. That's be- 
cause the soul is always struggling to be free. 
This time Cousin Clown and Uncle Pantaloon 
helped her. She could twist them round her 
little finger. And she made a great mistake 
in running away with this very sham-serious 
young man. 

uncle edward. Sham-serious ? 

alice. He only thinks he's serious because 
he reads books all day long. And she married 



24 THE HARLEQUINADE 

him, and he's turned out to be most awfully 
dull. And I'm most awfully sorry for her. 
He treats her like a bit of furniture. Isn't 
it funny the way the soul will fall in love . . . 
and with the most unaccountable people ; and 
you know how you say " I can't think what 
she sees in the man. ..." But a god can see 
. . . and an artist. And Harlequin's a bit of 
both. So when he comes along . . . Uncle, 
the rest of it isn't a very nice story. Will they 
mind? 

uncle edward. They? They'll like it 
all the better. 

Alice. Well, you see the husband being so 
dull, she wants somebody to take her out and 
show her things and be attentive. And there's 
the Man of the World. And things are getting 
rather serious. For Cousin Clown and Uncle 
Pantaloon aren't any use. They're just stupid 
and friendly and nice, like all one's country 
cousins. But just in time comes Harlequin- 
Mercury. He has no wings left to his feet, 
because you wear off wings rather soon if you 
wander about the world. And his wand hasn't 
any snakes left. It's just painted white wood. 
And it's a good thing we've come to the jokes 
about the sausages, because, now Harlequin's 



THE HARLEQUINADE 25 

only a strolling player, he's sometimes awfully 
hungry. 

uncle edward. Very true. Are they 
ready ? j 

alice. I'll see. 

[So she turns and sticks her head through the 
curtains. 
Yes. 

UNCLE EDWARD. Music. 

[And the music begins again. 
Some are all for a bell, and again others are 
for a gong, but . . . 

[He wields his trusty mallet for three hard 
whacks on the floor. And then the two 
of them draw back the curtains on the 
second scene. 




LINE of dark cypress trees; a 
blue sky and an Italian landscape. 
A path to a house. A young man 
lying on the ground reading. His 
name is Gelsomino. The music tells him 
that he hears Columbine. He stirs, looks 
round, frowns, and goes back to his book. 
Columbine flies out of the house. 
Alice. [Radiant and proud.} This is Col- 
umbine. 

[And what should Columbine be like? Well, 
she is just like what you'd most like her 
to be. She has a rose in her hand. 
She stops as she sees her husband, then 
shyly puts out her arms to him, but he 
cannot see that, for his back is turned. 
She creeps up to him and drops the rose 
on his book. He brushes the rose away 
and waves her away too. 

He's not really angry, but you see he's mar- 
ried to her, and he can't bear being interrupted. 

26 



THE HARLEQUINADE W 



[Columbine stands looking — deliberately 
looking her prettiest; wistful, appealing. 

I think that's been her mistake. If she'd . . . 

UNCLE EDWARD. Sh ! 
ALICE. Sorry ! 

[Mechanically he has put the rose in the 
book for a marker, and is moving away. 
But now we see — or if we don't see, we 
hear in the music — the Man of the 
World on his way. 
The Man of the World. I told you ! 

[Such a man of the world! But when you 
can dress in vermilion and purple and 
gold and wear the biggest cloak and the 
largest sword that ever was and twist your 
moustache as outrageously as you please, 
what's easier than to fascinate such a 
child as Columbine? She curtseys to 
him as he bows to her. She beckons to 
' her husband to join them. But he, lost 
now in the landscape, now in his reopened 
book, waves only a distant greeting, and 
will not budge. The Man of the World 
smiles a most worldly smile, and soon he 
and pretty Columbine are strolling towards 
the house; she looking down at the flagged 



THE HARLEQUINADE 



walk and the flowers that border it, he 
looking down at her, with eyes too greedy 
' to be kind. 

What a pity, isn't it? 

[Then the music tells us quite unmistakably 
that Pantaloon and Clown are tumbling 
along. 

Listen ! Pantaloon and Clown ! They are 
always coming to lunch. Because if actors 
like this know there is lunch . . . 

UNCLE EDWARD. Hush ! 

[And on they tumble; the Pantaloon and 
Clown that Children know! Clown has 
a basket that he slyly sets down and Panta- 
loon falls over it, of course. Gelsomino 
joins them, willy-nilly; for they fetch him 
there, because Clown has a joke to tell. 

Alice. This is the beehive and butterfly- 
hive story. The music does bees and butter- 
flies beautifully, doesn't it? And I told you 
the joke besides, so it's quite easy to follow. 
Gelsomino never sees it. He is dull. 

[Clown does sigh deeply over Gelsomino 1 s 
unmoved face. But he tries again. He 
takes from his basket the entirely impossible 



THE HARLEQUINADE 



corpse of a cat. Pantaloon chuckles si- 
lently. But Alice laughs out loud. 

Oh! I'd forgotten that one. It's one of 
his very old ones . . . but I like it. He says 
. . . "Somebody's thrown away this perfectly 
good cat." Gelsomino doesn't think it a bit 
funny. 

[Gelsomino doesn't. He sniffs and retires 
disgusted. Clown juggles with the cat 
to cheer himself up. Then he flings it 
recklessly high in air and you hear it fall 
{the big drum does this) with a loud 
plomp in the road. 

Back stroll Columbine and the Man of the 
World. But she is looking up at him 
now, and the music tells us that her heart 
is beating fast. She welcomes Clown and 
Pantaloon with a kiss, one for each. 
Clown is so funny when he is kissed. 
And she makes them known to the Man of 
the World. Clown is so funny when he 
bows. He can't bow all he wants to with- 
out knocking Pantaloon over. Then Col- 
umbine has to help pick him up and com- 
fort him and kiss him again. Then there 
is the meal to be prepared. Off they run, 



30 THE HARLEQUINADE 

all three, and on they bring it, drinkables, 
eatables, table and chairs. 

Only Gelsomino sits aside. The Man of 
the World goes to him to ask what book so 
absorbs him, friendly, faux bonhomme. 
Gelsomino responds at once. Books are 
important. And, as he lifts his up, the 
rose drops out. The Man of the World 
picks it up and — "May he keep such a 
trifle?" "By all means," nods Gel- 
somino, wondering. And Columbine, 
there with the dish in her hands, sees it, 
and — there's very nearly no macaroni 
for lunch. 

But some one else sees it, too — sees it and 
sees all. This is Harlequin, who has 
sprung somehow from behind the trees. 

There's Harlequin . . . with his wand and 
his mask. He's watching. Now you watch. 

uncle edward. What are you laughing at ? 
The many times you've seen this ! 

alice. I never can help it. This is where 
Clown tries to steal the breakfast, and he never 
remembers that Harlequin's close behind. 

[And, indeed, while the others most ostenta- 
tiously don't see, Clown and Pantaloon do 



THE HARLEQUINADE 31 

steal bread and sausages and beer — and 
into the basket they all go. Not the 
beer; that goes down the neck of Clown. 
Then Columbine calls them to breakfast. 
Harlequin is presented to the company. 
Gelsomino has greeted him even more 
coldly. 

He is weary of her relations. 

[But, behold, they discover there is no break- 
fast. Clown discovers it, and is more 
amazed and innocent than any. Colum- 
bine is in despair. But Harlequin rises 
and waves his wand and strikes on the 
table, and breakfast appears. Clown, in 
a panic, turns to his basket. But, behold, 
that is empty now. 

Then they have breakfast. And Clown gets 
a lot and Pantaloon very little. Gel- 
somino hasn't come to the table at all, so 
Columbine goes to fetch him. But he isn't 
hungry, he won't come. And, turning, 
disappointed, she sees the Man of the 
World lifting, not his glass to toast her, 
but the rose. Harlequin sees, too. And 
he rises to wave his wand again. Gel- 
somino starts to move away. 



THE HARLEQUINADE 



He's getting so cross. And he says . . . 
" Do, for Heaven's sake, let me read in peace." 
Y o*u know ! 

[But, with a flash of his wand, Harlequin 
strikes the book. 

There ! He has magicked the book all 
empty. 

[And, sure enough, we see Gelsomino turn the 
empty pages in despair. It is the sim- 
plest of tricks. Then Harlequin points to 
where the Man of the World woos Colum- 
bine with those eyes of his, those greedy 
eyes. But Gelsomino will not see. 

He's out of temper now, so he pretends he 
doesn't care. 

[Harlequin points to the rose that Gelsomino 
so lightly let fall. The Man of the World 
is pressing it to his lips. 

He points to the rose because that's a — 
that's a . . .! Oh, what's the word, Uncle? 

uncle edward. Symbol. 

alice. Thank you . . . Symbol of Colum- 
bine's true wifely love for him. And what 
the pointing says is : Are you going to throw 
that away, too? Don't be a silly fool ! 



THE HARLEQUINADE 33 

[The Man of the World is taking his leave. 

The rose is at her lips now. 

And what h e says is T o - n i g h t . . . just 

like that. Only I can't say it. Which means 

he'll come back to-night and carry her off 

and love her ever so. And he might, what's 

more, if it wasn't for . . . ! But you'll see. 

[Suddenly Gelsomino goes to Columbine and 

demands the rose, imperiously, with a 

gesture not to be denied. 

That means he says he's her husband, and 

can't he have it if he likes? And she won't 

give it him now. And she's quite right. I 

wouldn't either. Nor would any woman. Look ! 

[And Columbine has torn the rose in pieces 

and flung them on the ground, and flung 

herself off. And then Gelsomino flings 

himself down in self-reproachful despair. 

But all this flinging shows a lover's quarrel, 

and there's life and hope in that. But 

Alice is young and stern. 

Serve him right ! And if it wasn't for 
Harlequin. . . . 

UNCLE EDWARD. Hush ! 

[Harlequin has called to Clown and 
Pantaloon. And, like conspirators, they 



34 THE HARLEQUINADE 

stand there and most elaborately they 
weave a plot. It's a most difficult plot 
to follow. It involves a dark night and 
tiptoes and a signal given. It involves, 
too, a cloak and a skirt and a bonnet for 
Clown; and this attracts him so much he 
can attend to little else. 

Alice. Do you guess what's going to happen ? 
Uncle, they've forgotten the lights. Oh, this 
is the bit I love. 

uncle edward. [In a hoarse whisper.] St ! 
George ! 

[Suddenly on the little stage day becomes 
night. What had George to do with it ? 
[In a hoarse whisper still.] Bring 'em round 
a bit . . . the number two steels. 

[And the moon, obediently turning, floods 

the little stage. Indeed it is pretty. 

Uncle Edward can't contain himself. And 

he has given it away anyhow. 

Romantic, isn't it? And just the colour 

moonlight ought to be. 

[The music tells us this is real romance. 
Dark figures are flitting among the trees. 
Who are they? Gelsomino, Harlequin, 
Pantaloon. The Man of the World, 



THE HARLEQUINADE 35 

wrapped dramatically in a great black 
cloak, arrives. "Arrives" is poor. He 
approaches. Pantaloon totters down to 
him. "Wait, and your love will come." 
He waits and his love comes, waddling most 
amazingly and wrapped in the tablecloth. 
We are sure it's Clown, and who wouldn't 
be? But the Man of the World — for a 
real Man of the World — is strangely de- 
ceived. He kneels to her adoringly; he 
rises and would embrace her passionately. 
alice. "Love of my life," he says. "Let 
us away !" 

[Harlequin waves his wand. The tablecloth 
has gone. It is Clown indeed, clownish 
and undoubted. 

Yes, it's Clown, it's Clown, it's Clown ! 
And Clown says: — "Whither away, fair sir?" 
And the Man of the World just withers. 

[He grinds his teeth, does the Man of the 
World {if there is anything in the orchestra 
that will do it). And he goes, defeated. 
"Exit, baffled, the Man of the World." 

Alice is breathless. 

Harlequin and Gelsomino are alone now, and 
Harlequin wraps Gelsomino, all trembling 



36 THE HARLEQUINADE 

as he is, in the cloak which the Man of the 
World dropped there. They wait. Then 
comes poor Columbine creeping in, timid 
and ashamed. She half-dreads from the 
stern cloaked figure. She turns to her 
home to kiss her hand to it. But Harle- 
quin with his wand lures her forward. 
And she goes, she goes. Then the wand 
is waved again, and the cloak is off. It 
is her husband; and she shrinks, this 
time in terror. He stands like a stone. 
She waits for a blow — for a curse. But 
suddenly he kneels among the petals 
of the forgotten rose. Is it he begging 
forgiveness of her ? She has no thought 
for that; only that she always loved him. 
She bends to him, he takes her hands. 
He rises and she lifts her face. Their 
lips join. 
Alice and Uncle Edward draw the curtains. 

There ! That's how they get back among 
the gods. 




E don't travel to the next Scene too 
quickly. Alice has gone back to her 
little chair, and there she sits silent, 
her chin cupped in her hand, her eyes 
dreamy. Uncle Edward clears his throat 
noisily several times. Then he puts on 
his spectacles and looks at her. 

uncle edward. Wool-gathering ? 

alice. I love a love story. And she's such 
a darling, and always, all through the ages, 
all through what Clown calls the longest week- 
end on record, she falls in love and falls in love 
. . . and falls in love. 

uncle edward. Come, now, it's only story- 
telling. Don't let it get on your mind. Here, 
I want to speak to you. 

[Alice most obediently goes over to him, and 
he whispers to her. 
alice. [By no means in a whisper.] But 
perhaps George is busy with the next scene, 

37 



THE HARLEQUINADE 



uncle edward. Never you mind. 

[Away she goes and through the curtains, 

leaving Uncle Edward to fill his pipe. 

But she's back almost at once and full of 

smiles. 

uncle edward. [Anxiously.] Well, what 

did he say ? 

ALICE. He said : — "I was thinking of having 
one myself, Miss Whistler." 

[And there follows her through the curtains a 

hand and arm holding a foaming pint of 

beer, which she takes across to her Uncle. 

The beer goes the way of all beer. 

uncle edward. [After wiping his mouth, most 

politely, with the cheerfullest looking handkerchief 

you ever saw.] On the warm side. Go on with 

your bit. 

[Alice takes her talking place again, feet 

together, hands behind her. Then a long 

breath. 

Alice. So the years went by. And they 

acted in Italy, and they acted in France, and 

they acted in England. W T hich is where we've 

got to now, in about seventeen hundred and 

something. All sorts of odd people got added 

to the company, and dropped out again on the 



THE HARLEQUINADE 39 

journeys. In France they found Pierrot. But, 
being a Frenchman, he hated travelling ; so 
they left him there. Nobody knows who Pierrot 
was ... at least I don't. 

uncle edward. My dear, if we start on 
what we don't know, we'll be here all night 
. . . and the next. 

Alice. I'll skip lots then ... all about 
Mr. Rich and the great Harlequins. People 
liked them better than Garrick ! And now we 
come to the next story. It's England, and it's 
London. It's about Columbine running away. 
It must always be about that. The hero runs 
away with her. Or, strictly speaking, p'raps 
this time it's her that runs away with him. 

uncle edward. Grammar. 

Alice. Her ... or she that runs away with 
he ... or him ! She's a country girl come to 
be a chambermaid in London. A singing cham- 
bermaid, she is ; they had them in the old plays, 
and it must have brightened the hotels lots. 
And she's called Richardson for short. Harle- 
quin's a valet in the same house. And why 
they're servants now instead of actors is be- 
cause it was about this time people began to 
think that Art and Religion and Love were 
things you could just ring the bell for, and up 



40 THE HARLEQUINADE 

they would come and wait on you. So this is 
another sort of a . . . symbol. And the gods 
have lost their magic. 

uncle edward. [Much alarmed.] What ? 

Alice. All right, Uncle ; it's to make a sur- 
prise. [And then to reassure the audience, who, 
bless them, aren't alarmed at all.] They really 
haven't, and they never can. They may lose 
their magicky magic ; for the world grows up 
like we do. But Harlequin can still see deep 
into the hearts of men, and Columbine's so 
sweet that you can't help loving her though you 
don't know why. And that's the realest magic 
of all. There ! 

Pantaloon's the hero's lawyer . . . because 
when you're an old 'un you're always a bit of a 
lawyer . . . you can't help it. And Clown is 
Charles, his friend, a country squire, come up 
to swagger in London because they did. The 
story's the same story really ... it always 
is ... just twisted about. The Italian young 
man was buried in books, which was bad enough. 
But this young man is so drowned deep in him- 
self . . . which is worse . . . that he's almost 
nothing but clothes. In fact he has so dropped 
right through himself, that he isn't himself 
at all. There's nothing left of him but the 



THE HARLEQUINADE 41 

reflection in his mirror. In his mirror ! Do 
remember that . . . it's important. . . . And 
Harlequin has to make a man of him . . . 
because Harlequin is the spirit of man wanting 
to come to life. It's the young man's wedding 
morning, and Harlequin-valet — is putting out 
his wedding suit. There's a Woman of the 
World this time instead of a Man of the World, 
who is going to marry him only for his money. 
But Columbine, the chambermaid that he has 
never even noticed . . . 

[Behind the closed curtains a girVs voice is 
heard singing a simple country song. 

There ! they've begun . . . because I've been 
so long. That's her song. She sings as she 
goes through the rooms a-dusting them. And 
when she sings, little wild flowers grow up 
through the chinks of the boards. 

uncle edward, I suppose they are ready. 

[She pokes her head between the curtains. 
Uncle Edward has really melted to this 
last touch. He is wreathed in smiles. 
She's a wonderful child. Knows the whole 
thing backwards. Thinks of new bits for her- 
self ! I call to mind her mother saying . . . 
[Alice has turned back. 



42 THE HARLEQUINADE 

Alice. Ready when we've counted twenty. 

UNCLE EDWARD. Right. 

[Alice counts: you can see her lips move. 
Uncle Edward hums his counting as an 
accompaniment to the little song. 




ND so we have got to the Eighteenth 
Century. And we're to have a comedy 
of manners, and a nice study of 
clothes. All rather shapely; for it 
contains a real Beau, and the only valet 
who was ever a hero, and the only hero 
who ever had Mercury to valet him. 

There is a good deal of dressing up in this 
scene, and a neat ploy of dressing down, 
and a man's soul comes into being all over 
an affair of a looking-glass. Which makes 
a pretty piece of work. 

Alice knows Hogarth through the — shall we 
say? — nicer prints, and Austin Dobson 
through the daintiest of Ballads. This 
scene is a sort of mixture to her of 
early reading, and visits with her Uncle 
to the National Gallery, and old bits of 
China, and dumpy little leather -bound 
volumes of u The Spectator", the real 
" Spectator", which she can just remember 
on the fourth shelf from the top near the 
window. 

43 



44 THE HARLEQUINADE 

You may add, for your own personal satis- 
faction, when you are sitting and looking 
on, all that tense excitement the very words 
u Eighteenth Century" awaken in the 
properly balanced mind. Wigs and 
coaches and polite highwaymen, and lonely 
gibbets on still more lonely moors, and the 
Bath road with its chains and posts, all 
come into the background. Pedlars and 
cries of Pottles of Cherries, Puppet Show- 
men, and Clowns on stilts and French 
water gilders, and the sound of swords 
early in the morning in Leicester Fields: 
the touch of them all should be there. 
And also St. James's Street crammed 
with sedan chairs, and black pages with 
parrots, and the rattle of dice at White's 
or Almack's, and the hurrying feet of the 
Duke of Queensberry' s running footmen. 
Such romantic dreams should come to 
you. Sliding panels and gentlemen driv- 
ing heiresses to Gretna Green, and secret 
meeting places, and Fleet marriages and 
the scent of lavender, musk, and ber- 
gamot I 

But the song is nearly over and the curtains 
are drawn back. 



THE HARLEQUINADE 45 

The room might be a background to a picture 
by Zoffany, dim and mellow and empty. 
There is a door leading to the passage; 
another that must lead to the Beau's bed- 
room. There is a fireplace with a fire 
burning. A portrait of the Woman of 
the World is over the fireplace. There is 
a dressing-table by the fireplace, with a 
tali wig stand and a big arm-chair by 
it. There is a bureau with writing ma- 
terials. There are cupboards in the wall 
full of clothes and stockings and shoes. 
The bedroom door is open. 

Harlequin -Valet stands listening until the 
sound of the song dies away. He has a 
clothes' brush in his hand. Then he 
places the clothes he has been brushing on 
the Beau's chair in a ridiculous sem- 
blance of a man. He adds a wig to the 
wig stand which is behind it, puts a patch 
on the wig block; a cane to one sleeve, a 
snuff-box to the other ; puts shoes to their 
place, so that the stockings dangle into 
them, and then stands back to admire his 
work. He bows low. 

Columbine dances on with a feather brush 
in her hand. He takes her to the clothes^ 



46 THE HARLEQUINADE 

and presents her to them with every formal- 
ity. She curtseys. 

Alice. You see, she's a new maid, and he's 
pretending that that's her master. Lord Eg- 
lantine . . . Betty Richardson ! It's rather 
wicked of them. 

[Harlequin waves his clothes 1 brush, and the 
wig stand bows back. He waves it again, 
and all the clothes tumble together in a 
I heap. 

One hears the front door bang. Harlequin 
waves Columbine into the bedroom, sweeps 
the clothes together into a neat pile and 
stands waiting by the door. There enters 
Lord Eglantine, the Beau. A trifle pale, 
disordered, calm. He has been gambling 
all night. To the rhythm of a minuet 
Harlequin takes his cloak, hat, and cane, 
takes off his coat and gets him into a 
gorgeous dressing-gown, and so into his 
chair. And there he sits looking for all 
the world like the bundle of clothes come 
to life. 

In the next room Columbine begins to sing 
again, and Lord Eglantine leans forward 
to listen. 



THE HARLEQUINADE 47 

eglantine. Maunds of cowslips, honey bags 
of bees ! Whose voice is that ? 

harlequin. Ten thousand pardons, my lord, 
it is the chambermaid. 

eglantine. She has a name ? 

harlequin. Richard son, my lord. 

eglantine. Richardson. Are there people 
called Richardson ? Interesting ! 

harlequin. I will stop her, my lord. We 
did not expect your lordship to return so 
soon. 

eglantine. No. A woman singing ... in 
my bedroom. Dusting yesterday's cares away 
to make room for the cares of to-morrow. Put 
that down. I may want to say it again. What 
is she singing? You know everything. 

harlequin. A country song, my lord. 

eglantine. Is the country like that ? Hand- 
kerchief. 

[The word has hardly left his lips before the 
handkerchief, neatly unfolded, is in his 
hand. What a valet! 

She has stopped. Put the door ajar so that 
I see her. 

[Harlequin looks at the door. It opens and 
stands obediently ajar. 



48 THE HARLEQUINADE 

A picture of innocence. Putting her hair 
tidy before my mirror. She is like a . . . 
. . . [He has almost forgotten those little things 
that grow so prettily.] . . . when I was a boy 
they grew in the garden. 

harlequin. Flower, my lord ? 

eglantine. I must give her a guinea. 
Give me a guinea. Send her to me. 

harlequin. Certainly, my lord. 

[He beckons to Columbine, and she dances 
on. 

eglantine. So you are a chambermaid? 

[Richardson curtseys. That's a poor way to 
describe it. It is a bob rustic indeed, but 
it veils Columbine very slightly. She is 
like one of the flowers of Keats, " all tiptoe 
for a flight." Into the room with the arch- 
valet and the very tired, elegant modish 
man she has come like the scent of mignon- 
ette through the window. His lordship's 
mind stirs even under its counterpane of 
cards and dice and buttered claret and 
snuff and fripperies, and one might 
think he heard the echo of a thrush's song 
sung when he was a boy {Unbelievable 
thought), and climbed trees. 



THE HARLEQUINADE 49 

And where do you come from ? 
harlequin. The country, my lord. 
eglantine. I lived in the country once. 
There used to be things one picked in the hedges 

[He has forgotten those, too. 
harlequin. Blackberries? 
eglantine. I don't think they were called 
blackberries. Things with a rough husky scent. 

[Columbine's lips make a pretty pout. In an- 
other moment we should hear Prim — ... 

The girl has it. Primroses. One forgets. 
One lives to learn to forget. [He likes the 
sound of that. It fits the sense. It is almost an 
epigram.] A guinea, child, for the song. Sing 
at your work. I like to hear you. 

[She floats away. Eglantine has turned to 
his mirror. 

Fifteen thousand pounds lost and not another 
wrinkle. Sir Jeffrey Rake had it of me last 
night. They keep those rooms so hot. Quin, 
am I pale? 

harlequin. Perhaps a little, my lord. 

[From nowhere in particular Quin (Harle- 
Quin, you notice) produces the Beau's 



50 THE HARLEQUINADE 

morning chocolate, which Eglantine sips 
daintily. 

eglantine. What do I do to-day ? 

harlequin. At eight o'clock comes Mr. 
Talon. 

eglantine. A plaguy fellow, my attorney ! 
And I have not slept a wink. What does he 
want with us ? 

harlequin. Among other things your lord- 
ship's signature to the marriage settlement. 

eglantine. Whose marriage settlement ? 

harlequin. At ten o'clock your lordship 
is to be married. 

eglantine. So I am ! Heel-taps and Hy- 
men's torches ! so I am ! Wonderful fel- 
low, you remember everything ! But death 
of my waistcoats ! Have I but two hours to 
dress in? Not more. Begin on me . . . 
begin. 

harlequin. Pardon, my lord, the bell. 

eglantine. That's the man of law. Show 
him in. You can bring water in here . . . my 
turban . . . pantoufles. 

[The door opens and in totters Pantaloon. 
You know him for Pantaloon, as you knew 
him as Pantaloon for Charon, for all he's 



THE HARLEQUINADE 51 

Mr. Talon with his tie wig, his spectacles, 
a?id his lawyer's blue bag. 

harlequin. His lordship will receive you, 
Mr. Talon. 

pantaloon. To celebrate your master's wed- 
ding day . . . two crowns. 

harlequin. I am obleeged, sir. 

[Quin takes the proffered money and salutes 
in thanks. But — it's odd — the salute 
is as when Charon saluted Mercury. 

ALICE. D'you see ... in a dim sort of way 
they remember themselves and Olympus. 

eglantine. Mr. Talon, 'pon me honour, 
as punctual as a creditor. Port? Madeira 
or Port, Mr. Talon? Quin, Mr. Talon will 
drink Madeira. 

[Quin pours out the Madeira. Quin takes 
his master's wig, beturbans him, brings 
rose-water for his hands, cosmetics for 
his face. Quin is everywhere. Quin does 
everything. It is magical. 

Mr. Talon, you look black at me. 

[Mr. Talon, seated, warmed with his wine, 
takes many red-taped papers from his 
bag and a quill from a case. 



52 THE HARLEQUINADE 

pantaloon. A goose quill. 

eglantine. One of your own plucking? 

pantaloon. Often too appropriate for the 
signing of such documents. 

eglantine. This the settlement? Small 
house . . . strip of woodland . . . rentals of 
farm . . . two hundred a year ! Is that all ? 

pantaloon. It is all there is left to settle, 
my lord ; all that is left to you of your estate. 

eglantine. The Lady Clarissa may well 
complain. 

pantaloon. But if you had not pledged your- 
self to pay her debts besides you would be still 
twelve thousand five hundred pounds the richer. 

eglantine. True ! 

pantaloon. And I must warn your lord- 
ship that all this done, if it's to be done, you 
will have left to you a mere fifteen thousand 
pounds in stocks. That, and no more in the 
world. 

eglantine. Fifteen ? 

pantaloon. Exactly. 

eglantine. How lucky. The very sum 
I lost last night to Sir Jeffrey Rake. Had it 
been more how could I have paid him? Had 
it been less we should have been troubled with 
the change. 



THE HARLEQUINADE 53 

pantaloon. My lord, my lord ! 
eglantine. You seem distressed. Quin, a 
glass of wine for Mr. Talon to restore him. 

[In a flash Quin has re-filled his glass with 

wine. 

pantaloon. You are ruined ! 

eglantine. So it seems. Rose-water for 
my hands, Quin. 

pantaloon. This is Sir Jeffrey Rake's re- 
venge. It's said that he has wooed Lady 
Clarissa while you won her from him. 

eglantine. At fifteen thousand ! Cheap, 
then, you'll admit at the price. 

pantaloon. A cheap lady, no doubt, my 
lord, at any price. 

eglantine. You know her ? 

pantaloon. Her reputation only. 

eglantine. There's her portrait behind me. 
I can't turn my head. Quin, bring me my 
mirror. 

[Mr. Talon studies the brilliant lady rather 
doubtfully. 

pantaloon. I trust she loves your lordship ? 

eglantine. Gad's life ! I never asked her. 
A monstrous unfair thing to ask of any woman 
of the world. 



54 THE HARLEQUINADE 

pantaloon. Doubtless she is grateful for 
the sacrifice you make. 

EGLANTINE. I hope not. 

[Quin now has the mirror placed so that 
Eglantine can view his bride-to-be. It 
reflects other matters of importance, too. 

Ah ... is that the new wig on the block ? 
Vastly good ! Quin here, Mr. Talon, has a 
magical touch at dressing a head. Gad, but 
the wig block looks as lively as I do. The 
mirror reflects her ladyship's portrait very 
well. 

pantaloon. You love her, my lord ? 

[At this moment and at that word Harle- 
quin waves his wand — it is a comb as 
it happens — and next we hear Columbine 
begin again to sing. 

eglantine. Love, Mr. Talon, is a most 
unmodish thing. It may be called . . .! That 
girl is singing again ! 

harlequin. She knows no better, my lord. 
Shall I stop her ? 

eglantine. No. But hand me my epi- 
grams upon love. They slip my memory. 
It's a pretty song. [The tablets are before him. 
He glances over them.] Now, let's see. Love 



THE HARLEQUINADE 55 



is a . . . [But he is caught by the song.] Art- 
less as a bird ! Love . . . [That fine epigram 
seems out of place beside the song.] When 
a woman loves you, she . . . [But while that 
girl is singing, he simply cannot read the foolish 
words.] That might be the oldest song in the 
world ! 

harlequin. It is, my lord. 

eglantine. [Gives back the tablets with the 
wryest smile.] Take them, put them in the fire. 
As epigrams well enough, Mr. Talon ; but per- 
haps the simple truth is, that I do not love her 
ladyship. 

[And the song ceases. 

harlequin. Pardon me, my lord; once 
more the bell ! 

[Quin disappears to answer it. 

eglantine. Gad, no more delays, or my 
bride will be kept waiting at the Church. 

pantaloon. Listen to me, my lord. Pay 
these debts of hers in full, make this settlement 
as you intend, and you are a pauper. 

eglantine. But yet a gentleman who has 
given his word and not broken it. 

pantaloon. You will at least allow me to 
postpone the payment of the debts till you are 



56 THE HARLEQUINADE 

safely married. Caution's our lawyer's trade 
mark. Her ladyship might die, might change 
her mind at the very altar ! 

eglantine. I will not allow you to cast a 
doubt either on her perfect health or her per- 
fect honour . . . nor let the shadow of one rest 
on mine. 

pantaloon. But, my lord, why has she 
begged you keep your marrying secret till 
to-day ? 

eglantine. Perhaps she is not very proud 
of me, my dear Talon. It is possible. 

[Harlequin flashes through the doorway and 
announces . . . 

harlequin. Sir George Rustic. 

[// is Momus. Devil a doubt it is also our 
old friend, Clown. 

eglantine. Welcome, my dear George, so 
soon again. We didn't part till six. 

clown. Damned if we did. A rake-helly 
place is London to be sure, but after Somerset 
... I tell 'ee, I likes it. I been home since, 
washed hands and face ! No ; washed hands 
. . . not face. Then to White's for my choc- 
olate, and picked up the latest smack of gossip 
. . . the best there's been in weeks . . . good 



THE HARLEQUINADE 57 

enough to come along and tell 'ee. So here we 
be again. 

eglantine. My attorney, Mr. Joseph 
Talon. 

clown. Han't we met somewhere before? 

pantaloon. It is possible, sir, but it must 
be a while ago. 

clown. I seem to know 'ee. I've got an 
uncle called Joey. 

alice. You see they always nearly 
remember. 

clown. No pleasant business a-doing by 
the looks of you. I guess it, and don't wonder. 
What was your joke as we started the cards? 
Man who sits to gamble at night had better 
have called his attorney betimes in the morn- 
ing. 

eglantine. Ah, well remembered. Pray 
redeem, Mr. Talon, as soon as may be, my note 
of hand for fifteen thousand from Sir Jeffrey 
Rake's steward. 

pantaloon. My lord. 

CLOWN. And it's him that this bit of gossip's 
about that I've come to tell 'ee. Dang it, the 
best that ever you heard. You must know . . . 

eglantine. George, we detain Mr. Talon, 
who has business to do and no care for gossip. 



58 THE HARLEQUINADE 

pantaloon. Oh, believe me, my lord, for 
an old 'un . . . 

clown. So we do believe you, Mr. Joseph 
. . . sprier than many an old 'un, I'm sure. 

eglantine. A parting glass of wine to cheer 
you. George, help Mr. Talon and yourself. 
[Harlequin waves his wand — a napkin it 
is this time — and the glasses are filled. 

clown. Your health, Mr. Talon. 

pantaloon. Yours, Sir George. Long life 
to you, my lord. 

EGLANTINE. Life ! 

[Pat on that word — that most commanding 
word — Columbine' s song breaks forth 
again. And this time loud and clear. 

Ah, stop that singing, it hurts me. Dismiss 
the girl ! Pack her out of the house ! I can't 
bear it. 

harlequin. Very good, my lord. 
[He waves his wand and the song stops. 

clown. Another glass, Mr. Joseph. 

pantaloon. I thank you, Sir George. 

clown. While I tell you my story. For it's 
the best story . . . ! 

pantaloon. One moment. In this glass 
may we drink to the bride ? 



THE HARLEQUINADE 59 

clown. Yes, and it's about a bride. 

pantaloon. With his lordship's permission. 
. . . "The bride!" 

clown. The bride? Whose bride? I 
mean, whose bride is this ? 

pantaloon. His lordship's. 

clown. Yours, Eglantine? Well, by the 
clocks on my stockings ! 

pantaloon. It has been kept a secret. 

eglantine. You leave this deed of settle- 
ment with me ? 

pantaloon. To hand to her ladyship when 
the ceremony ends. 

eglantine. What's this little farm like 
with its two hundred a year ? Where is it ? 

[Mr. Talon doesn't know, it seems. Then, 
it is Harlequin who speaks. 

harlequin. If your lordship pleases, it 
happens very strangely to be the place where 
Richardson, our singing chambermaid, was 
born ; where she lived till I brought her here. 

eglantine. Her home ? 

harlequin. Her home, my lord. 

eglantine. I must keep this safe, Quin. 

[Quite tenderly — though why ? — he lays 
the parchment by his side. 



60 THE HARLEQUINADE 

clown. Damme, I want another glass to 
pull me over the shock, old Talon. 

pantaloon. An excellent wine. It reminds 
me of the time . . . 

eglantine. [Watch in hand.} Let it remind 
us all of the time. Mr. Talon, Lady Clarissa's 
lawyers expect you at nine with the bonds for 
twelve thousand five hundred pounds. Don't 
let me detain you. 

clown. Lady Clarissa ! But that's the very 
name . . . 

eglantine. Stay, George, and bring me 
to the church and tell me your story on the 
way. You'll pardon me, my wedding suit 
awaits me. 

[He goes out. Be-wigged, rouged, be-pow- 
dered, his dressing-gown gathered about 
him; like a splendid vision he jades into 
his bedroom. 

PANTALOON. I must gO. 

clown. No, not without a final glass. 
We've settled the Madeira, but there's still 
the Port. 

[Harlequin waves a powder puff. And the 
empty decanter is full and the full one 
empty. 



THE HARLEQUINADE 61 



pantaloon. No, no, Sir George, we've 

settled the Port, but there's still the Madeira. 

[Harlequin waves. And the empty is empty 

again. But the full one is empty, too. 

clown. Oh, Joey, Joey, we've settled them 

both. 

[There they stand, all three, grouped as we 
know them so well. 
alice. Look, oh, look ! There's the Harle- 
quinade ! 

PANTALOON. I must gO. 

[And he goes. 
eglantine. [From within.] Quin ! 
harlequin. My lord. 

[And he vanishes. 
eglantine. And now for your story, George, 
if while I dress, it will carry through a door. 
[The scene you cannot see is, of course, of 
tremendous importance. A Beau dress- 
ing for his wedding I It couldn't be done 
upon the stage because no audience roughly 
coming in from their dinner ridiculously 
dressed in black clawhammer coats could 
appreciate the niceties of the toilette of a 
Beau, so far, so very far removed from the 



THE HARLEQUINADE 



uncultured vulgarities of the Nut. They 
say that even the very silk-worms who span 
to make him silk for his coats are set aside 
from the silk-worms who spin silk for per- 
sons of grosser habit. And every flower 
embroidered on his coat is perfumed with 
its proper scent. And a girl has gone 
blind through making the filmy froth 
of lace about his throat. 

clown. It's carrying round London by 
this time. You know Sir Jeffrey Rake ? 

EGLANTINE. I think SO. 

clown. Yes, don't you. You lost enough 
to him last night. 

EGLANTINE. I did. 

clown. He's been this year past, it seems, 
sweethearting . . . and a bit more . . . with a 
famous lady of fashion here in town. But he'd 
not a penny, and she'd ten thousand pounds 
of debts. So marry they couldn't till she hit 
on a plan. 

eglantine. Indeed ? 

clown. A fine lady's plan. She was to 
cozen some wealthy fop and swear to marry 
him if he'd pay those debts of hers. D'you 
mark that ? 



THE HARLEQUINADE 63 



eglantine. I mark it. 

clown. There's more to come. The night 
before the wedding was to be . . . last night as 
ever was ... if Sir Jeffrey didn't win at cards 
a cool fifteen thousand from the same poor 
fool. And this very morning, off have the 
precious couple gone ! Married by this, begad 
they are; he with his pockets lined, she free 
of her Jews. It'll be all over town in an hour. 
And the fool fop is dressing for his wedding! 
Now did ever you hear the like of that? 
[There is silence in the other room. 
I say, did ever you hear the like of that? 
Is your master there, Quin ? 

harlequin. [Who is passing in and out.} 
To some extent he is, Sir George. 

clown. Gad, let me think a minute . . . 
though the wine's in my head. What sum did 
you lose to Sir Jeffrey last night ? Your bride's 
name was Clarissa. ... I heard it. And 
Clarissa Mordaunt's the name of that fine 
lady. Odds, Bobs and Buttons! You're not 
the fool fop, Eglantine, are you ? 

[Is it Eglantine who enters? There stands 
something for a moment like a dead thing 
dressed in a bridegroom's splendour. It 



64 THE HARLEQUINADE 

is as if some ice-cold hand had plucked 
at his heart. Yet he is calm; the poise 
remains true, the subtle artifice is there. 
But the crushing blow to his pride is in 
his pale face, and his voice rings bitterly 
when he says : 

EGLANTINE. I was. 

clown. I'm sorry. I might have guessed. 
I mean, of course I couldn't have guessed . . . 
that any man would be such a fool ... I 
mean . . oh, gad, I . . . 

Alice. He never opens his mouth but he puts 
his foot in it. That's what he's trying to say. 

clown. But there's time yet. Old Talon 
can't have paid the money to her lawyers by 
this. Jeffrey Rake boasted too soon. I'll 
run to stop it. 

eglantine. Pray, do nothing of the sort, 
George. 

clown. But I will. An't I your friend? 
What's the address ? 

eglantine. My pistol, Quin. 

[The pistol is in his hand. 

clown. And the fifteen thousand Rake 
won. Hold it back. We'll call him out and 
do for him . . . one of us. 



THE HARLEQUINADE 65 

eglantine. Must I go so far as to shoot 
you in the leg, my dear George, to convince you 
that it will be an errand ill run . . . that they 
are welcome to their gains . . . that I count 
myself well rid of them. 

clown. Oh ! You don't count on my not 
telling the story, do you ? 

eglantine. Though I shot you as dead 
as mutton, every joint would squeak it, I feel 
sure. 

clown. Oh ! 

eglantine. Quin ; the door. 

clown. Oh ! 

[Still he stands, grinning there. 
eglantine. George, we are keeping my 
servant in a draught. 

[Clown waddles out. Harlequin vanishes 
too. He is back in a moment to find 
Eglantine sunk in the chair facing the 
mirror to see — finery! And what else? 
Quin. In the glass there ... is that Eglan- 
tine? 

harlequin. Till this moment your lordship 
has been pleased to think so. 

eglantine. The country girl that sang. 
I had her sent away. 



66 THE HARLEQUINADE 

harlequin. Since the song caused your 
lordship some discomfort. 

eglantine. Stop her before she goes. [He 
takes the parchment from the table.] Stay, 
give me pen and ink. This is for her when 
the name is altered. Her home I think you 
said. . . . 

[Harlequin vanishes again. Eglantine most 
carefully erases the one name and writes 
in the other. Then he rises, pistol in 
hand, and faces himself in mirror, looks 
himself full in the face. 

And now, Lord Eglantine, since you are he ! 
Peg for clothes, scribbler of epigrams, now to 
end and for ever your tailor's dream. 

[And he fires. But he doesn't fall. Instead, 
the mirror cracks and a puff of smoke 
comes from it. Alice must not interrupt 
the story or she would; and she aches to, 
because she always fears the audience may 
not grasp the point. Lord Eglantine was 
a reflection of his time in the polished 
mirror of his age. Until he blew the re- 
flection into smithereens, he had no soul, 
no reality. A wig, a box of patches, snuff, 
silk, lace, a clouded cane, a neat sense for 



THE HARLEQUINADE 67 

words, that was Eglantine, and now he 
has become, in all humility, a man. Back 
comes Harlequin to find him. 
harlequin. My lord ! 
eglantine. A slight accident. 
harlequin. The noise has wakened our 
neighbours. 

eglantine. On my honour it has wakened 
me. 

harlequin. Richardson ! 

[Columbine appears. 
Kindly pick up his lordship's pieces. 

[She has her little dust-pan and brush, and 
most neatly she does so. Eglantine — 
a new Eglantine — watches her, and the 
thought of a new life is born in him. 

eglantine. We've a few guineas in the 
house, I suppose? 

harlequin. A few, my lord. 

eglantine. Enough for a coach hire to 
the country. A penniless fellow such as I 
am, Quin, would she welcome me to her home, 
I wonder? 

harlequin. But I fear that this parchment 
fails of its effect unless your lordship is married 
to the owner. 



THE HARLEQUINADE 



eglantine. But not a bad idea, Quin. 
[Then he sighs doubtfully.] Would she think 
so? 

harlequin. Let us ask her when she has 
picked up the pieces. 

[And here Alice and Uncle Edward draw 
the curtains, for the scene is over. But 
Alice still stands fingering their folds. 
Her eyes smile, but her mouth droops a 
little doubtfully. She is never over-happy 
about this scene. " Very pretty" she 
hears the front row people say; and then 
they rustle their programmes and read 
about whiskey very old in bottle, or 
cigarettes, a very special blend. "Very 
pretty" is so patronising. Someone else 
remarks u How quaint" ; and that is 
worse still. Miles away from us is the 
meaning of that eighteenth century with 
its polished perfections. So perfect, yet 
so partially perfect, that mankind could 
only break them all to pieces and start 
again. But Alice, tidy little soul, loves 
the fine order of it all. If they embroidered 
flowers so well, they must, she thinks, have 
loved the very flowers, too, and such good 



THE HARLEQUINADE 



manners must have meant that somewhere 

underneath the silk and stays they had 

kind and worthy souls. But her mouth 

does droop a little, and she asks her uncle, 

almost whispering : 
11 Do you think they understood it?" 
11 Any child could understand it" Uncle 

Edward says, and back to his paper he 

goes. 
Alice gives a shy glance round. She doesn't 

mind now if they do hear. 
"But that's the trouble, as poor Auntie used 

to say: 'They're not children.'' Don't 

we only wish they were." 
Once more, then, Uncle Edward sizes up the 

house; a good house now, a contented 

house, a bread-and-butter house not to be 

quarrelled with. 
11 You take your public as you find 'em, my 

Missie," he says, or rather, this he only 

seems to say. His words are: "Alice, 

get on with your bit." 
So Alice smiles again, and smooths her 

frock and puts her heels together and turns 

out her toes, and gets on. 




LICE. [As she faces them.] I beg 
your pardon. Well, that was in 
seventeen hundred and something. 
And we skip the eighteen hundreds 
because they were so busy : too busy to play, 
except just riotously, and we skip to-day, too, be- 
cause . . . well, really because what we showed 
you about to-day with bits of "you" put in 
it might seem rather rude. And we skip to- 
morrow, because to-morrow really is too serious 
to make our sort of jokes about. So we go 
right on to the day after. And you've noticed, 
haven't you, that we go westward all the time? 
So next the scene's in America, which you get 
to through New York. Things have been 
going from bad to worse with our four poor 
gods, but what has principally knocked them 
endways is machinery. Now America is full 
of machinery. And they can't understand it. 
For whatever a machine is supposed to do in 
the end, there's one thing it always seems sure 
to do in the beginning, if you're not very, very 

1° 



THE HARLEQUINADE 71 

careful. And that is to knock the spirit out 
of a man. Which is his magic. Clown and 
Pantaloon and Harlequin and Columbine are 
very simple folk, you know. They let them- 
selves be just what it's most natural to be, and 
only try to give their friends in front . . . kind 
friends in front, they call them . . . just what 
will make them happiest quickest. So this is 
what they've come to be by this time, Clown 
and Columbine, Harlequin and Pantaloon. No 
names but those, no meaning, no real part at 
all in the rattle and clatter of machinery which 
is now called Life. They're out of it. They 
clung to the skirts of the theatre for a bit. But 
the theatre, aching to be "in it", flung them 
off. The intellectual drama had no use for 
them, no use at all. And so they found them- 
selves (out of it indeed) busking on the pave- 
ment, doing tricks and tumbling and singing 
silly songs to the unresponsive profiles of long 
lines of ladies (high-nosed or stumpy-nosed 
ladies), waiting admittance to the matinees of 
some highly intellectual play. And with glasses 
on those noses they'd be reading while they 
waited the book of that same play : so even 
then our poor gods busked in vain. But worse, 
far worse. . . . 



72 THE HARLEQUINADE 

Along came the Man of the World again. 
He calls himself the Man of Business 
now. "Do the Public really want this sort 
of stuff?" he said. "Well, let 'em have 
it. But as a Business Proposition, if you 
please." 

So he bought up all the theatres, and he said 
he'd make them pay. And his cousin, the Man 
in the Street, took shares. And they organised 
the Theatre. And they made it efficient. 
And they conducted it on sound commercial 
lines. And the magic vanished and people 
wondered where and why. Now what we're 
going to show you, you won't believe could 
ever happen at all. It does seem like the 
cheapest of cheap jokes. But really if we 
will think magic's to be bought and sold, and 
if we leave our gods to starve because there 
isn't any money in their laughter or their 
tears . . . well, it's more than the Theatre that 
may suffer. But the poor pampered Theatre 
is our business now, and here's our cheap, cheap 
joke about it. You aren't expected to laugh 
... in fact, perhaps you shouldn't. It's one 
of those jokes you smile at, crookedly you know, 
this joke of the Theatre as it well may be the 
day after to-morrow if some of us don't look out. 






THE HARLEQUINADE 73 

[And with that we hear music. It's a rag- 
time tune, and something about it hurts 
us. After ten bars we find out what and 
why. It is the theme of the gods cheap- 
ened and degraded. Music is of all the 
arts the directest epitome of life. Not 
a noble thing in it that cannot, it would 
seem, with just a turn or two, be turned 
to baseness. 

Alice and Uncle Edward draw back the cur- 
tains, and there's another curtain to be 
seen. It is not beautiful to look at — but 
it's useful. It has six advertisements 
painted on it in "screaming" colour. 
"Eat and keep thin 11 says one. "Drink 
and keep sober 11 says the next, and Some- 
body's Patent Something is the way. 
" Indulge freely ; we take the consequence " , 
the motto runs beneath the two. "Patent 
pearls that will deceive an oyster 11 says 
the third. The fourth's a Face Cream, 
and the fifth's for Shattered Nerves. The 
sixth says, "Believe in our Patent God and 
you shall assuredly be saved. 11 From one 
side comes the Man of the World — Man 
of Business — Business Manager. Silk 
hat, dress coat, white waistcoat, shiny 



74 THE HARLEQUINADE 

shirt, patent boots, and big cigar; he's very 
smart and prosperous indeed. From the 
other side come the four poor gods, out of 
work buskers of the streets, down at heel 
and weary. But still gods, and with a 
god-like snap of ill-temper to them for you 
to know them by. 

clown. Morning. 

man of the world. Afternoon. 

clown. Is it? Now [Says he to the others], 
you leave it to me, and let's all keep our tem- 
pers. See here, Mr. Man, is this the old 99th 
Street Theay ter ? 

man of the world. This, sir, and you know 
it as well as I do, is nothing so out of date. It 
is Number 2613 of the five thousand Attrac- 
tion Houses controlled by the Hustle Trust 
Circuit of Automatic Drama : President, Mr. 
Theodor B. Kedger. But it is located on 99th 
Street, New York City. 

clown. Are you the boss ? 

man of the world. I am a deputy sub- 
inspector of the New York and New Jersey 
division of the circuit. 

clown. Can we have a job, me and my pals, 
here? 



THE HARLEQUINADE 75 

man of the world. You cannot. 

clown. And why not? 

man of the world. Because you are super- 
seded. 

clown. What's that ? 

pantaloon. I'll super if there's nothing 
better. 

clown. Where is the durn President? 

man of the world. I learn from the fash- 
ionable intelligence that he is at present cruising 
the Mediterranean on his electric yacht. 

clown. Where's the author of the piece ? 

man of the world. There ain't no author 
of the piece. This present item is turned out 
by our Number Two Factory of Automatic 
Dramaturgy ; Plunkville, Tennessee. 

clown. Where are the other actors . . . 
God help 'em ? 

-- man of the world. There ain't no actors ; 
we froze all them out way back. Where've you 
been that you've grown all these mossy ideas 
on you ? 

clown. Never you mind. Tell us, what's 
come to the poor old 99th Street Theayter . . . 
and how. 

man of the world. Well, I guess I need only 
quote you from Volume One of the Life of Mr. 



76 THE HARLEQUINADE 

Theodor B. Kedger, our esteemed President 
. . . Nit ! [And as he says " Nit, 11 if it were not 
for all the anti-expectoration notices hung round 
he would certainly spit.] It is stacked ready 
to put on the market the day he passes in his 
checks. Hold on now. About the year 1918 
Mr. Kedger, who had already financially made 
good over the manipulation of wood-pulp 
potatoes, synthetic bread, and real estate, 
turned his attention to the Anglo-American 
Theatre. For the Anglo-American Theatre 
did not pay. Here was Mr. Kedger's oppor- 
tunity. Forming a small trust, he bought up 
the theatres, both of the Variety and of the 
Monotonous kind, bought up the dramatists 
with their copyrights present and future, 
bought up the actors — 

pantaloon. Didn't buy me. 

man of the world. Didn't count you. 

clown. Cost much ? 

man of the world. [He winks.] The pay- 
ment was partly made in shares. He then paid 
the Dramatists considerable sums not to go on 
writing, which was, of course, a clear profit. 
He paid the actors to stop acting, which was 
in some cases a needless expenditure of money. 
He also brought in the Cinema and Gramophone 



THE HARLEQUINADE 77 

interests, organising the whole affair upon a 
strictly business basis. 

pantaloon. He left us out. We've had 
cruel hard times, but I'm glad he left us out. 

man of the world. Then followed some 
years of experiment in the scientific manu- 
facture and blending of drama. As I speak, no 
less than twenty-three factories dot the grassy 
meads of America. The work is done by clerks 
employed at moderate salaries for eight hours 
a day. For the cerebration of whatever new 
ideas may be needed, several French literary 
men are kept in chains in the backyard, being 
fed exclusively on absinthe and caviare sand- 
wiches during their periods of creative activity. 
No less than forty different brands of drama 
are turned out, each with its description stamped 
clearly on the can. While a complete equip- 
ment for anyone can be travelled by the 
operator in his valise, still leaving room for 
toothbrush and slumber-suit. 

clown. Do the public like the stuff ? 

man of the world. They've got to like it. 
They get none else. 

clown. Can't you give us another chance? 
I'll lay we could make good. 

man of the world. Sorry, sonny, but I 



78 THE HARLEQUINADE 

don't see how you'd fit in. Watch this at- 
traction I'm going to try over. 

clown. You still rehearse, do you ? 

man of the world. Once. Would you like 
to watch ? Then you'll see. 

clown. What's it called? 

man of the world. It's called "Love: a 
Disease", and it's Number seventy-six of the 
High Brow Ibsen series. It ain't got nothing 
to do with Ibsen really, but his is still a name 
that sells. He was a German professor of 
mathematics and highly respected in his day. 
I'll have you see a bit of one act. 

columbine. What's the plot ? 

man of the world. No plot. It's a home 
life story, a conversation. A man is telling a 
woman that he is just bored stiff with every- 
thing on earth. 

PANTALOON. Ah ! 

man of the world. And she doesn't know 
what to say. That's the first act. 

clown. Gosh ! 

man of the world. In the next he's asking 
her advice as to whether a really tired man 
ought to marry. And she doesn't know. 

clown. How long does that take ? 

man of the world. Quite a while. 



THE HARLEQUINADE 79 

clown. Which is the act we are going to 
see? 

man of the world. The third. It contains 
the action. About half-way through he moves 
across to her and says : "Don't cry, little girl, 
I can always shoot myself!" And then he 
finds out that she is stone deaf from birth, and 
hasn't really heard a word he said. So she 
goes forth into the world to learn the Oral sys- 
tem, while he awaits her return, when he will 
begin again. Are you ready? I'll ring up. 

[Quite wonderfully the big cigar shifts to one 
corner of his mouth, almost in line with his 
ear, and he whistles shrilly. The curtain 
of the "six ads." flies away, and there's 
the automatic drama in full swing. Three 
canvas walls, liberally stencilled in the 
worst Munich style. And in this space are 
two pink gramophones on two green ped- 
estals. One is gilt-lettered * l A rthur. ' ' The 
other silver-lettered i l Grace. ' ' The trumpets 
incline to each other a little, for this is a 
love scene going on. On a white framed 
space in the back wall, stage directions 
are written moviely. This one spells 
out "Arthur is still speaking. He crosses 



80 THE HARLEQUINADE 

his legs and takes an asthma cigarette." 
Then the gilt-lettered phonograph croaks: — 

Arthur. After all, what is love but a disease 
of the imagination? Don't cry, little girl, I 
can always shoot myself ! 

grace. [Who croaks an octave higher.] I'm 
not crying. Tell me more. 

[Moviely the stage direction comes: "He 
leans forward. 11 

Arthur. But why should there be one law 
for women and another for men? One law 
for childhood and another for old age? Why 
skirts, why trousers? Why those monotonies 
of sensation and experience? Why this un- 
reality, this hypocrisy, this cowardice, this 
exaltation of the super-sham ? Why . . . ? 

[Moviely at the back is written: "She leans 
forward, too. 11 

man of the world. Now the emotion 
thickens ! 

grace. Let us go back to the beginning. 

pantaloon. I can't hear none of this. 

clown. If you worked Pictures with it, it 
mightn't be so bad . . . for them as likes this 
sort of stuff. 



THE HARLEQUINADE 81 

man of the world. We do work Pictures 
with the lighter and fruitier forms of drama. 
But here they would only obfuscate the cere- 
bration. Wait till she cerebrates. And she 
cerebrates some! 

grace. No child at her mother's knee was 
more innocent than I. How then did knowledge 
of good and evil come ? I will tell you. I will 
tell you of the evil first ... 

pantaloon. Columbine, you go and wait 
outside. 

grace. [With a louder croak.] Passion . . . ! 

clown. Stop ! 

man of the world. Don't interrupt. 

clown. She ain't got no right to it with a 
voice like that. 

grace. Laughter . . . ! 

clown. Never laughed in her life ! Never 
had a life to laugh in ! 

MAN of the world. Young man, if this 
were a performance, you would be dealt with 
by our aesthetic policewoman. Vulgar com- 
ments made in public upon works of art are 
now an indictable offence. 

clown. Works of what ? 

grace. . . . And the joy of life! 

clown. Stop, I say ! 



82 THE HARLEQUINADE 

man of the world. For the last time . . . 
don't interrupt. 

clown. I will interrupt. And I'll smash 
those durned machines, though the last Clown 
in the world is hung for it. For that's me 
. . . that's me ! Oh, has it come to this, after 
all we've done for the theatre! Haven't we 
loved it, Grandfer, haven't we? My red-hot 
poker's in pawn, and I've worn out the sau- 
sages. But let's have a try to make him laugh. 
Take the starch out of him ! Take the bank- 
note rustle out of him ! Take the Theatre 
from him. Save it and save him, too ! Come 
on, old 'un. Kiss your hand, Columbine. 
Harlequin, if you love me, if you love the 
drama, have one more try. Magic . . . Magic ! 
Turn these clicking clocks there back into whole- 
some human bad actors again, and turn the 
Deputy Inspector of the New York Circuit of 
the Hustle Bustle Trust of Automatic . . . 

[Columbine trips across the stage. Pantaloon 
chuckles. Clown tumbles head over heels 
and sends the Man of the World flying. 
Harlequin leaps in the air and smites 
with his wand the two pink gramophones 
on the two green stands. They vanish! 



THE HARLEQUINADE 83 

Down through a trap goes the Man of the 
World. Red Fire! And Alice, as she 
tugs the curtains to, calls in her most 
stentorian tones . . . 

Alice. Grand transformation scene ! I al- 
ways draw the curtains rather quick because 
it never works quite right. 

[She waits a little, and then, very simply, says 

The gods go back . . . 

[And stops and swallows. Poor dear, her 
throat is dry. 

uncle edward. You want your glass of milk. 

alice. They don't ever really go. For 
what would become of us without them? 
But it rounds off the play. They just go 
back as flowers die to come again forever. 
For the seed of the gods is sown in the hearts 
of men. The seeds of Love and of the Magic 
of High Adventure and of Laughter and of Fool- 
ishness, too. Well, when they reach the Styx 
there still sits that philosopher, who wasn't a 
philosopher at all because he sought no wisdom 
but his own. Because of that, you see, he has 
found none. There he sits, deaf and blind, 
while Olympus flashes and thunders behind him. 
There he sits, chattering that there are no gods. 



y 



HE curtains are drawn back on the 
last scene. The Styx again, flowing 
black beneath its black mountains. 
There sits the Philosopher, patiently. 
He is dressed now as a Member of Par- 
liament, or worse. He has a fountain pen 
and a notebook. And the gods arrive. 
Mercury, Charon, Momus, and Psyche. 

philosopher. Who are you ? 

mercury. We are the gods returning. 

philosopher. [Very definitely indeed.] There 
are no gods. Though from time to time it has 
been necessary to invent them. 

pantaloon. Why, it's my friend, the philos- 
opher ! 

philosopher. Pardon me. Nothing so un- 
practical. I am a Political Economist. I 
write Blue Books. I make laws. 

mercury. Can you row us over ? 

philosopher. What a question! I have 
established several rowing academies. I know 
how rowing is done. But, as a matter of fact, 

84 



THE HARLEQUINADE 85 

I cannot row. Still it's of little consequence, 
for the boat was given to a museum some time 
ago. Besides, the latest theories tell us that 
there is no other side. 

clown. Ain't there? Well, I'm going to 
swim and see. 

philosopher. Pardon me, bathing is not 
allowed in the Styx. 

clown. Ain't it ? 

[Off tumbles Momus, and you hear him splash 
in the river. The Political Rconomist has 
risen indignantly. Under the bench, dusty 
and neglected, Psyche spies something. She 
runs to see. With a little cry she picks 
them up, and shakes and smooths them. 
They are the Talaria. {Do you know what 
Talaria are? Look up Mercurius in 
Lempriere's Classical Dictionary.) 

mercury. Wings ! My wings ! 

philosopher. Yes, they are wings. Left 
here by two children, and I hadn't the heart 
to destroy them. But I hid them away ; they 
are dangerous. The very sight of wings makes 
men and women feel above themselves. 

mercury. Bind them on. 

[And Psyche kneels to bind them on his feet. 



86 THE HARLEQUINADE 

Sir, I return you your rags and your mask. 
They are at least more picturesque than 
your present attire. Listen, the great gods 
are waking ! Monday morning in Olympus. 
Charon, stay with this fellow. He means 
well by the world ; but teach him to rebuild 
the boat. For when his work is done he'll 
be glad to escape and to rest as you row him 
across the river. Psyche, we're late. Let us fly. 

[For the last time the blue curtains close. 

uncle edward. Now, your last bit . . . 
the bit the journalist wrote in your album. 

alice. Oh, yes, if you please, you're to be 
sure and remember that : — 
In the noise and haste and bustle 
Fairies on the lamplit pavements ; 
Gods in gorse and heath and heather ; 
Fauns behind the hedges playing ; 
Pan about in any weather. 
Children hear them, see them, know them ; 
See the things the fairies show them, 
Harlequin in magic poses ; 
Columbine among the roses ; 
Pantaloon in slippered ease is 
Laughing at Clown's ancient wheezes 
In the Summer, in the Spring, 



THE HARLEQUINADE 87 

In the sunshine, in the rain, 
Summon them and hear them cry — 
" Here we are again." 
That's all, isn't it, Uncle? 
uncle edward. Yes, that's all. 
ALICE. Good night. 

[And so, the Harlequinade being over, we go 
home. A little later Alice and Uncle 
Edward and the actors, all rather tired 
and ready for supper, start home, too. 



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